


How Hard We Fall

by butteredflame



Series: asoiaf drabbles [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Behavior, Confusion, Crack, Developing Relationship, Drama & Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Episode Tag, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I have well intentions, Infidelity, Male-Female Friendship, No One Kills Dany, Resolved Sexual Tension, Season/Series 08, Strangers to Friends, Take it Or Leave it Babes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 14:57:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20780480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butteredflame/pseuds/butteredflame
Summary: Basically--Sansa’s a big dyke and Jon always knew, a secret between them that helped to keep their rapport honest despite disagreements over the years. Jon wants Sansa and Daenerys to be friends but she thinks he is too enamored with his Queen to see what can happen between both women until it’s too late. She does not mean to fall for the Dragon Queen...but stranger things have happened.—Season 8: Ep 1 and 2. Crack. Romance; Hurt/Comfort. No Dany-bashing. Only Dany-love. Sansa POV.





	How Hard We Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Started from [this](https://waterchimesbetweenrocks.tumblr.com/post/185550118162/how-hard-we-fall-daensa-thoughts-couldnt-stop) and grew into this. I’m a Jonerys shipper but I have other loves. I couldn't stop thinking about Daensa and now here we are. I quite like it, crazy as the whole situation is. By which I mean--enjoy! <3

_____________

  
_"Winterfell"_

______________

Sansa is in an ill mood when they arrive. The armies sweep into Winterfell, bringing with them the scent of horse and pluming so greatly she’s sure the dragons can smell them from the clouds. 

She stands in the courtyard with Bran at her side, disgruntled and wondering where Arya had gone off to lurk, when Jon and the Dragon Queen finally enter past the gates, riding their mounts abreast each other with practiced ease. They bed each other quite often, then. 

Happy to see her brother, however, she buries her nose in his furs as she draws him into a hug and squeezes him tight because she’s proud of his success. Yet she can’t look away from the Queen standing at the gates with her grizzled Lord Commander, those violet eyes holding hers. Jon moves onto Bran, and Sansa allows a smirk at the horror his change causes. _Though you warmed yourself by her side, you will remember the ice in your veins soon enough, brother._ As the other woman steps forward to join them, the thought leads to another, less hopeful, that Queen Daenerys aims to make her supremacy just as inevitable. 

Yet her eyes widen at the other woman against her will. She is small, bright, and refined—certainly the most beautiful woman Sansa has seen since Margaery Tyrell walked the halls of the Red Keep. Her smile is small but genuine, polite but confident. Sansa’s breath catches in her throat as she speaks, a subtle reaction, but audible enough to draw a knowing frown from Jon.

“Lady Sansa, thank you for inviting me into your home. Winterfell is as beautiful as Jon described.”

_He bent the knee, _she clarifies to herself, watching the Queen rest her hand at Jon’s elbow. They lean into each other, a silent _hello _that Sansa can’t quite understand, and she continues, “As are you.” 

A cold wind blows into the courtyard as Sansa battles her memories. She can almost smell the salt that hung in the air on the shore of Blackwater Bay; can almost smell the roses Margaery left around Aegon’s garden for her to find. Though the Lady of Winterfell has felt this way only once, it is enough to place it now, again. Sansa swallows it down and smiles conspiratorially. 

“As are _you_, your grace.” Why the Queen’s brows rise, Sansa does not know. Surely, she must hear this often? “Winterfell is yours.”

“I…thank you.” 

She clears her throat. Jon frowns good-naturedly and squeezes her arm. The woman who conquered half of Essos accepts his comfort, but she smiles at Sansa, seeming flustered and even charmed. Sansa knows she is kind but not welcoming. She’s not good at making friends. Perhaps…Queen Daenerys senses that. She lowers her eyes.

“We should hurry this along,” Bran interjects. “We’ve much to talk about, your grace, and very little time to do it.” 

“Then where is Arya?” Jon asks. 

Sansa smirks. “Lurking, somewhere.”

As they share an amused glance, Queen Daenerys prompts, “And you?”

“Easier to find, your grace,” Sansa replies, puzzled. “I spend most days in my study.” 

“Good, then. I do not believe you and I will ever have enough time to speak.” 

“We’ll see, then,” she drawls, surprising herself. “Won’t we?”

Jon is smiling down at the Queen, seems but a moment from pressing a kiss to her temple. Yet it’s Sansa’s attention that makes her preen, “I imagine we will.” 

Sansa is stunned. _Can Jon be so enamored with her that he would let her walk around and fall in love with whomever she wished..? _Before she can choke on her words, the Queen continues inspecting their preparations for hosting her dragons and her armies. Sansa informs her through her teeth, because the Northern are proud and she did not like having to request provisions from the vassals of House Stark. Queen Daenerys is thankfully satisfied, though she does not appreciate her attitude. Her attention moves on to the minor members of their household, and then to the lords of the Vale, reminding Sansa of their luck, that Winterfell was in fact larger than the Red Keep. Otherwise it would be impossible to house so many.

She’s still grumbling about their sacrifices when the Queen’s Lord Commander fetches her to discuss something in private, and after she promises to tour the castle with Bran soon, they excuse themselves. Refusing company, Bran disappears into the growing the swell in a blink. When Jon turns to her, she rolls her eyes at his brooding face. He chuckles darkly.

“Sansa, that went very well. But…you can forgive me if I didn’t expect that to be so easy.” 

Secretly, she beams at his approval. “You aren’t the only one who can play at diplomacy, brother.”

“Clearly not,” he agrees, then grows pensive. “They call her the most beautiful woman in the world. Do you agree?”

She closes her eyes. “Why do you care?”

“Because I knew you would.” 

“That’s not good enough, Jon.”

“Because I want you to be happy, Sansa, and I hope you two become friends. Queen Daenerys is kind, so just be yourself. “

“Just be myself…?” She recalls the early Summer morning Jon had tripped into the knitting room, how he hastily tore his eyes from the place her lips had met Jeyne Poole’s, how he swore not to tell anyone and the spark of hope that rose in her heart when he said the same words. But that was two seasons, two lifetimes ago. “Now that you are no longer our King, I cannot afford to just be myself. Too many depend me. I think you spent too much time in the South, Jon.” 

He nods cooly, as if he expected to hear this. It exasperates her, that despite their vast differences he can still read her so well. He wants his oldest sister and his lover to get along. But as Sansa said, his wants are separate from hers and moreover, vastly different. Mere minutes into their reunion they’ve reached a stalemate: a familiar state of play.

“Save some of your umbrage for the Queen,” he says. “After all, we follow her orders, now.” 

He turns on his heel and she follows his exit until a small crowd obscures him. Her eyes track to the shadows below the armory, and she finds Queen Daenerys speaking with her advisors. There are many. Her Lord Commander. Lord Tyrion. Varys!!! A man and woman of Essos (or Sothoryos?), who look pale in the Northern sun, but no less stunning. And a Dothraki bloodrider—most likely a horselord of renown and the first to bend the knee to her, because there is some sort of trust between them. Sansa stares and stares, sees the world in her pocket, and soon, her silver-pale brows tick when she feels the other woman’s gaze. The Queen looks away from Sansa’s gaze, then back again, and Sansa knows she doesn’t want to be anything ambivalent with her grace. _Not when she is my brother’s. Not when I want to be more than friends._

For that reason, she turns away. 

________________

Sansa is afraid of the dead. Jon says the Night’s King has an army of corpses—each one growling and scratching and hacking. She still hopes they are not real, but is weary of denial, never wants to touch it again. She thinks of her lessons with Cersei often. Remembers her uttering Varys’s words reluctantly, from behind her teeth. _Woe to the man who rings the bell, for the King is dead, and we shall go with him._

Sansa is afraid of the dead; especially when they come about in her dreams.

Margaery still wakes her in the middle of the night, stroking her hair and kissing her wrists, promising to find a way to rid the Red Keep and the Seven Kingdoms of Joffrey’s wrath. The house is always divided and the stones always fall apart around them. That night is no different, and so Sansa wakes, sobbing angrily but quietly, mourning for Jon and his lost crown.

She rolls over and prays to the old gods and the new, that they guide and protect them all—First Men and Andal, Rhoynar, Dothraki, Ghiscari—because she’s never before seen Margaery, back from the dead, with irises like blue stars, so cold and moving as quietly as snow. It shakes her to her core, has her wondering about the things Queen Daenerys had seen, of the Dead and of Jon, to leave her war with Cersei Lannister to fight his.

She doesn’t have to wait long.

The infamous Army of the Dead is the only topic on the agenda in their afternoon meeting in the Great Hall, even after Sansa had long ago called their bannermen to retreat to Winterfell after the Wall fell. That afternoon, the lords and ladies, their scribes, knights and guards pile into the Great Hall with grumbles, but they look well-fed. It is the only thing that makes her smile. Jon and the Queen look rather refreshed, and it weighs heavy on Sansa, that the fallout of Robb’s campaign and the loss of an entire generation has somehow come to this confusion. The Northern have already accepted that Jon bent the knee to the Targaryen queen. Now they think they understand what has come upon them. _The_ _Night’s King. The dead. The storms._ Her people want to fight. Good for them. But it is Sansa’s responsibility to keep them alive.

She must stop the assumption that this will all be so simple.

“Her grace will always receive our thanks for coming to our aid, especially when we didn’t know we needed it. The things Lord Snow has spoken of since his coronation...which is now moot...are real. But we cannot be expected to feed and house and arm the greatest army the world has ever seen,” she stresses, remembering those damn dragons. “What does a dragon even eat?”

The lords nod in agreement, strengthening Sansa to face the Queen, whose boldness makes her shiver.

“Anything it wants,” she answers.

Sansa thinks of the thorns on Margaery’s roses and the blood they drew when she wasn’t careful. She lowers her eyes.

______________

The next day, she finally locates Jon. Of course, he’s not where he’s supposed to be--in the lord’s study--but instead, he’s in the war room that’s hidden behind the Great Hall’s foyer, because that’s all he knows and Sansa can’t blame him for wanting to save their lives. He is weary to the bone when he welcomes her in and orders Ser Davos and his other advisors to leave. Yet his deep eyes frown at her when he takes her in. Can he sense her confusion? Sansa begins gratefully, but carefully.

“Well, Ned Umber has returned to Last Hearth to bring his people here. Meanwhile, Lord Glover wishes us good fortune...but he's staying in Deepwood Motte with his men.”

"That is not the best idea,” he chuckles darkly, tiredly. “Besides, ’House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousand years.’" Isn't that what he said?”

“’I will stand behind Jon Snow,’ is what he said. ’The King in the North.’”

Straightening, Jon eyes her. “You are the Lady of Winterfell. I told you we needed allies.”

“You didn't tell me you were going to abandon your crown,” she snaps. 

“I never wanted a crown! All I wanted was to protect the North.” He huffs, looking confused and resigned. “What more do I have to do? I brought two armies home with me, two dragons--”

“And a Targaryen queen.”

He dips his head, sighs deeply. “Do you think we can beat the Army of the Dead without her? I fought them, Sansa. Twice. You want to worry about who holds what title, I'm telling you it doesn't matter. Without her, we don't stand a chance!” His voice finally booms. Sansa lowers her eyes. “Do you have any faith in me at all, sister?”

“You know I do.”

Softly, he says, “She'll be a good queen. For all of us. She is not her father.”

“No, she's much prettier.”

He surprises them both with his laughter. As he calms, his full smile blooms, a lovely sight that is rare to see, indeed. “She is...so _beautiful. _I love her._”_

It is clearly the first time he’s told anyone else. Sansa rolls her eyes impatiently at the whole ordeal. “I know, Jon. But I must ask, did you bend the knee to _save_ the North or _because_ you love her?”

“Can’t it have been both?”

She thinks of Margaery again, and her skin that was so cold, and her lord father’s head on a pike, and her lady mother’s screams that echoed in her dreams three thousand leagues away--for years. Sansa shakes her head to herself.

“How about this, brother? Tell me how it all goes, and then we’ll know.”

She takes her leave. He doesn’t stop her.

___________

“My lady, you don’t like me, do you?”

Sansa is gazing over the courtyard at Lady Brienne sparring with her squire Podrick and other young fighting men, on the bridge leading from the Great Keep to the armory, when the Queen’s voice suddenly rises. Willing her heart to calm, Sansa turns over her shoulder slowly and blinks at her, because she seems to be a mirage appearing from the thickly falling snow, a fire-forged Winter beauty gazing expectantly at her. How could someone so small be so big? Better yet, she had just arrived at Winterfell, so how does she already know about spots reserved for the Stark household such as these?

Sansa’s thoughts oscillate between the possibility of giving Jon a reprimand for informing this woman on _everything _about their home and suspicion that this same woman is truly, breathlessly, deeply special. Perhaps, with the Valyrian blood in her veins, she is in a way that the Northern and their blood of the First Men understand. Perhaps.

She takes Sansa’s silence as confirmation. Her tone is firm.

“I don’t need you to be my friend. I need you to respect me.”

“Your grace...” Surprise makes her feel cornered and truthful, always too truthful. “I want to...”

Daenerys’s brows quirk softly, as she places a hand on the bannister. “You want...?”

“But I cannot. Not when you have flown in here with my humble brother and act as if everything is so simple—”

“When you have seen the Dead, you will know how simple it all is.” Sansa opens her mouth, but she continues. “I know what you will say, Lady Sansa. Food. Weapons. Armies. I know--I know what it takes to acquire a people and provide for them. I am no gentle queen. I have been at war all my life. I have prepared for this, to save the realm from the undefeatable. From the _Dead_.”

For a moment, Sansa is stunned. “Jon says you are our only chance.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I don’t know what to believe, your grace. You may be good for war, but are you good for peace?”

Queen Daenerys’s hard stare suddenly softens. She seems to hear the unspoken. _Could you ever be a gentle queen?_

Her whisper seems unbidden. “What if that’s not me?”

“Then Jon will support you,” Sansa grouses. _My brother and that heart of his. _“I’m sure of it.” 

“And you?” 

“Why would it matter, your grace? I am only the Lady of Winterfell. You don’t need me to be your friend.” 

She walks off, because it’s a habit she developed after being subjected to the Royal Court, of living and almost dying in the Red Keep, for too many years. She doesn’t want to have the last word with Queen Daenerys, not really. So, she reprimands herself as she climbs down and tracks through the muddy courtyard, so distracted that her foot somehow slips. She takes the opportunity to glance over her shoulder and finds the Queen where she left her, gazing sadly at her back. Sansa Stark has never been one to run if her life didn’t depend on it. So, she rights her cloak and dips her head respectfully, a silent goodbye.

_I am not running._

_I am not running._

__________

_"A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms"_

__________

Jaime Lannister has arrived, but he is utterly alone and looks roughened by the long, hard ride to Winterfell. Sansa sits at the great table with Queen Daenerys at her left and Jon on _her _left, while Ser Jaime stands before them with only a hint of the meekness he should have presented. _The Northern are too honorable for you, _she thinks_. We will have your head._ But she doesn’t know who makes her writhe with fury more: Cersei for being wicked or Daenerys for trusting her. _Now, who is so clever? May the Seven help us._

_“_What do you have to say for yourself?” Daenerys prompts. 

“I promised to fight for the living and I intend to do that,” says Ser Jaime. “I intend to keep that promise.” 

Every lord and lady in the hall seems to shift, as their doubt rises. His word has meant nothing to the Seven Kingdoms for two decades. That is when Lord Tyrion, the Queen’s Hand, steps forward, wincing under her harsh gaze.

“Your grace, I know my brother—”

“Like you know your sister?”

Sansa sighs, recalling her same conversation with the foolish lord.

“He came here alone,” he tries again, “knowing how he would be received. Why would he do that if he weren’t telling the truth?” 

“Perhaps he trusts his little brother to defend him, right until the moment he slits my throat.” 

Sansa will give her that. She speaks up. “Your grace is right. We can’t trust him. He attacked my lord father in the streets. He tried to destroy my House and family, the same he did yours.”

“_Aye...” _the room agrees. 

Ser Jaime huffs his frustration. “You want me to apologize--I won’t. We were at war! Everything I did, I did to protect my family. I’d do it all again.”

Sansa tenses with fury, along with Daenerys and Jon. Tense silence descends, broken only by Bran’s soft monotone.

“I know you would. The things we do for love, yes?” 

Yet his words are so strange the tension descends again. Ser Jaime seems shaken, an opportunity that Queen Daenerys takes and Sansa approves of.

“So, why have you abandoned your House and family, now?” 

“Because this goes beyond loyalty. This is about survival.” 

“It is for us, but not for you,” she returns searingly. Sansa’s brows raise and glances at her violet eyes. “If it had been, you’d have known your sister was deceiving us all before she made it apparent to you. You’d have undermined her plans, you’d have sent ravens to inform us of how she has endangered us. You’d have tried to bring as many fighting men as you could have and you’d have died to see it through.” 

“_Aye!” _

“But you did not. I will not let anyone here believe otherwise.” 

Jon turns and meets Sansa’s gaze. She cannot read him at that moment. It is...deeply strange. Before she can question it, Jon inches a finger to Daenerys’s armchair and brushes his knuckle against her elbow. Her eyes are hard on her father’s murderer, but her movement is soft when she takes his hand. Sansa ignores the quivering of her heart.

“Ser Jaime,” Jon says, ready to finish this, “does anyone vouch for you?” 

After a moment, Lady Brienne rises and joins the Kingslayer’s side. Sansa’s breath catches in her throat.

“You don’t know me well, your grace. Nor do you, my lord. But I know Ser Jaime. He is a man of honor. I was his captive once, but when the men who had taken us forced themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me. And he lost his hand because of it.” He lowers his eyes, finally meek. “Without him, Lady Sansa, I would not be alive.” Daenerys and Jon glance at Sansa, shocked. She breathes wetly. “He armed me, armored me and sent me to bring you home because had sworn an oath to your mother. Fully knowing that no one would ever learn of his sacrifice, at least, until the end had finally found him.”

Sansa looks away at the implication of _the end. _On the other end of the table, Jon tilts his head...but deep down, Sansa is touched by their bond.

She asks, “You vouch for him?”_ Yes. _“You would fight beside him?” _Yes. _The hall stirs sharply. “Well, I trust you with my life, Lady Brienne. If you trust him with yours, I say let Ser Jaime stay.”

Sansa meets Daenerys’s gaze; the other woman seems to stare the way she had that day, but fire burns around the edges of her eyes. Daenerys cuts her eyes down and addresses Jon in her peripheral. 

“What does the Warden of the North have to say about that?” 

Jon sighs deeply. “Lady Brienne. I see that Ser Jaime honored you and as a man, I am grateful for that. But I cannot be asked to forget that he dishonored and sought to destroy the woman who sits beside _me. _I am not yet sold on your honor, Ser Jaime. So I will let you prove it. If you fail, I will be glad to remove your head.”

The tension seems to break with his words. But Daenerys is the Queen Paramount, so she gets the final say. She seems to line her tongue along her teeth, and then she takes a deep breath. Staring openly now, Sansa watches the fire in her eyes retreat.

“I want you to understand, Ser Jaime.” She stands and everyone else follows. “Although you have traded loyalty for survival, know that there is no difference for the rest of us. Those who seek refuge under my authority have crossed half the world to see it through. Likewise, Lord Snow and Lady Sansa have fought for those in the North who survived your family’s campaign against them. We have all fought in the hopes to survive the Great War that is upon us, to reach a future where we can_ all be loyal _again.” She pauses. “You are a free man. But you are not forgiven.”

Then it’s over. Sansa finally catches a glimpse of her sister clinging to the east wall, as if she was waiting to run out and slit his throat the way she did Littlefinger’s. Then Arya’s gone and Sansa is shivering. Yet that is not why. She glances at the Queen one last time, who seems moments from collapse. Oddly, Jon has already exited the hall with his men. Sansa frowns and leans into her, but her Lord Commander quickly comes around to fetch her, which is just so.

_Yes, _she thinks, watching Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne exchange heartfelt glances. _That is just so._

_____________

Jaime Lannister’s arrival caused such a stir that it was easy to forget just how little time they have before the Army of the Dead arrives at the ancient castle. It only hits Sansa—like an arrow to the heart, or the violent thrust of a cock to the opening of her womb—when she is sitting in her study, gazing out of the line of windows on the west wall, having forgotten the rolls of parchment before her. Memories have haunted her more than usual since the dragons arrived. She frowns and wonders how Theon is fairing, since his sister Asha was captured by their uncle after smashing their fledgling fleet. She wonders if Sandor Clegane likes the cold better than the heat, now that he’s at Winterfell with his strange band of Rh’llor-following outlaws. She wonders if Margaery is at peace, now, and if she finally learned to tend to a garden, herself. Sansa wonders, if only to stave off the inevitable, until a firm knock sounds on the great door.

She sits up and says, “Come in.”

It’s Queen Daenerys, who is for once, alone. As she approaches, Sansa can’t help the way she inches back into her seat. The Queen, of course, notices this. Yet she seems gentler than usual. Sansa quirks a brow suspiciously, curiously.

“Your grace? May I help you with something?” 

She takes a seat across from Sansa’s desk and rests her hands on the tabletop. The sleeves of her gown rise, exposing her wrists. Sansa has seen her ride dragons--a blip of silver tucked behind a massive, leathery shoulder, sailing a league into the air. She is so small...but so strong...

“Lady Sansa,” she sighs, “I realize that...I want you to understand me.” 

Surprise catches Sansa once again. She tilts her head.

“I thought we were in agreement about Ser Jaime. But I see that you trust Lady Brienne with your life. So I understand. I am trying to, anyway.” 

Sansa doesn’t know what to say. “Thank you, your grace.”

“It does not please me. But I am trying.” 

She rubs a ringed finger along a silver-pale brow and looks into the hearth. Some emotion is rising in her, frustration tempered by something soft like water. It is unlike Sansa to explain herself, but she feels she must.

“I did not want to pardon him,” Sansa says, “but it relieves me to see one less death.” The Queen’s eyes flash. “Only because I know how complicated families have been, why they _can _be. His. Yours. Mine.” 

Daenerys closes her eyes wearily.

“It is something we all have in common, and it is sad, but it is true.” 

“We have other things in common,” Daenerys replies. “We are women of title and strength, who have been subject to men’s attempts to anull our rule. Yet we have survived them all.” Sansa smiles faintly. “Yet I...find that I don’t only want your respect, my lady.” 

“You have it, however.” Daenerys blinks at her. “You do.” 

“What changed?” 

“Everything.” 

Sansa shuts her mouth before more unbidden words can rise. The Queen seems even more unsettled. She does not reply for long moments.

“And you have Jon’s...everything,” Sansa continues. “He loves you.” 

“I love him. So much.” She pauses, then says it again. _My lady. _Sansa’s breath catches against her wishes. “I need you to understand me. All my life, I’ve known only one goal, and that is the Iron Throne. Until I met Jon.” Her eyes fall shut and her mouth trembles. “I have always loved him_. _That is why, although he bent the knee to me, it was I who vowed myself to him, when I delayed my war to win his and yours.”

“I should have thanked you,” Sansa says miserably. “I’m sorry.” 

Daenerys smiles sadly. Sansa leans forward excitedly. 

“After the war is done, what happens, then? Do you and Jon fly south to take the throne from Cersei?” 

“Yes.” 

Sansa is strangely bemused. “How simple of you.”

“I am beginning to believe you are too _thoughtful_, Lady Sansa.” Sansa holds her amused gaze, and Daenerys blinks softly. “I think it is an admirable quality. I hope that if you cannot understand why I _must _have the North, that you would at least accept it.” 

“Perhaps I will,” Sansa says bravely. “We will see.” 

Daenerys huffs un-regally and returns her gaze to the hearth. Yet the frustration is gone, the soft emotion rising in full. She is quiet. Sansa likes it. But she senses that there is more for them to say. The Queen’s non-sequiter surprises her.

“I mean to hold my vows to Jon until I die. That is why I do not see how he could approve of what I want from you and _for _you.” 

Daenerys regards her openly and vulnerably.

”I understand,” Sansa replies, with her heart in her throat. “But... _Could_ you ever love someone else?” 

“Perhaps. That is why you and I...should not act on this feeling.”

Sansa’s Tully-blue eyes widen, and her lips part at the way Daenerys’s brow quirks, eyes roaming her face with a striking, knee-deep longing Sansa should have placed long, long ago. How silly she had been, cutting herself on dead roses, when there is a dragon before her, ready and willing to roast her to the bone. She shudders a breath, watches Daenerys’s small fingers curl into the aged wood. 

“And yet...”

She can’t take any more pauses, nor hesitation, nor confusion. No more space. No more guessing. No more misery. She reaches her hand across the desk and gentles the meat of her palm against the Queen’s hand. Daenerys curls her fingers around Sansa’s hand and parts her lips. 

“...something tells me we will.”

Dazed, Sansa nods her agreement. It is all the invitation she needs.

___________

She is the first to stand and was the first to touch. But the Queen is right in front of her on her feet, offering her hands, her arms, her lips.

Sansa is grateful she doesn't have to speak. Because _Seven help her, _she should be punished for nudging the Queen’s head back in their lip-lock, but Daenerys only parts her lips in a soft exhale, lets Sansa kiss her harder and trembles in her arms.

After a long moment, dazed and unknown to the world, Sansa pulls away to raise the Queen’s palm to her lips. Daenerys seems to gulp, before mustering up the courage to put her hand in Sansa’s flaming hair. It is as soft as she thought it would be, is what the widening of her eyes say, is what the yawning of her mouth says when Sansa dips her tongue in so gently. Her hands are at the lady’s pretty jaw and then her neck and then back in her hair, and Sansa knows Daenerys wishes she could skim a finger along her collarbone, but she wears too much hardened leather like armor after what she’s been through, so regret throbs in her heart distantly.

But Daenerys wears only soft suede, so Sansa can skim her nose down her jaw, down her neck, and to her collarbone, and when she gets there, the other woman cups her head, breathes her hair in. A soft cry rises when Sansa parts her lips to swipe her tongue along the thin skin stretched over the bone, and Daenerys grabs at her hip, hard.

She wants her lips again—_yes, now—_so Sansa goes willingly, wanting to give as much as Daenerys will take. Yet they are so tender and gentle, and as they move, grasping at elbows and arms and any skin they can reach in reverence, it feels like moving through water—like _being _water. In fact, the delicate flower of Sansa’s belly flushes open when Daenerys pulls away just enough to look into her eyes.

She seems to mirror the sticky feeling in her chest, so familiarly. Breathing wetly, Sansa cups her cheek and then Daenerys springs forward for one more, hard kiss, before decisively pulling away, leaving Sansa dazed and blinking in the soft light of the Winter afternoon.

Sansa stares as no lady should, feeling wanton, ravaged and broken open as the Queen makes herself decent. But Sansa refuses to move an inch.

“Your grace…”

Daenerys offers her profile.

“I want you, Sansa Stark. Jon deserves to know that.” She turns her eyes to Sansa’s. “And he will.”

Her words leave Sansa mortified. Moreover, her exit leaves Sansa terrified, because the Dead will be here before morning and she doubts she’ll see the Queen again, to make this right, in any capacity. 

However, before she can grovel or grumble into the evening, a knock sounds on the great door. When Theon Greyjoy steps into her study, looking more whole than he’d been in years and asking for her forgiveness—asking to serve her to the end—her world springs back to itself.

Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, remembers running for her life, now.

_This is not the same._

She has control, now, even over the consequences of pleasure-seeking, even over the deceitful urges of her heart_._She will not run from the Queen.

She will not.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates have been rather sad elsewhere, so after a lovely person asked if this was finished, I decided to go ahead with it. Will add the second (Dany POV) and third (Jon POV) one-shots when they're done and I'll make it a mini-series. Think I'll go halfway through 8.05 before things really stop making sense. 
> 
> But really, you can expect Jon to have a lot on his plate (what with that big secret he's carrying.) He will work through Dany's infidelity and accept hers and Sansa’s bond in a way that is 0% perversion and 100% about loving her. (No Jon/Sansa, only b/c Dany's in the mix and that's one degree too much for me.) The endpoint will pretty much be Sansa finding out the familial (ick!) link between Jon and Dany...and puking in Dany's feather bed. *shrugs*
> 
> Kudos are love! Thanks for reading.
> 
> ETA: Dear Jonerys fandom: Of course I love Dany; two people are literally in love with her. One is some kind of love and the other is true love. Can’t be any clearer, in the literal words she and they are thinking and saying. My well intentions can’t be any clearer. It’s not fake news, okay. Just try to have fun and trust me, your fellow human being. ... Love and light to you all.


End file.
